Noontime yesterday—or thereabouts—a rather mild diurne, if we do say so, considering the surrounding ones of oppressive heat and death, surely, of the elderly and probably, or possibly, more accurately, since we are not in possession of the statistics, stray cats—the pregnant ones, anyways, in their gravid multitudes—one Hamilton Nolan of The Gawker, at best a filthy truck stop plied by lousy (literally) goldbrickers and meth whores on the information superhighway—wrote of the 2010 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction contest, likening the announcement of its winner to a "bullhorn fart," or some such; lovelily enough, the competition is such that, but of course, The Gawker must—must—must—must!—feel compelled in cascading waterfalls of inexorability to publish a second dissertation on the results of said striving, this time implying that the fix was in, for easily, verily, a much worse sentence a man (or woman) could indite.